


5+1 Times Aziraphale Held Crowley

by brilliantlyordinary



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has an emotional breakdown, Crowley likes being picked up, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Near Drowning, Sorry Not Sorry, Very abruptly, at the the end, dont we all, not betad or proofread we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 14:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20137144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantlyordinary/pseuds/brilliantlyordinary
Summary: Five times Aziraphale held Crowley, and one time Crowley let him





	5+1 Times Aziraphale Held Crowley

**I.**

The first time it happens, it’s a mistake.

This is the first time that Crowley has seen the ocean, and he is utterly enraptured. Standing on the very edge of a cliff, hair long and stretching back behind him in the salt-sharp wind. He is so still, save for the tug and bend of his burnt auburn curls, the winding of his robes around his thin, sharp form. Aziraphale didn’t mean to startle him, had only wanted to get closer, to better observe this miraculous sight, a demon utterly absorbed in pure and sinless enjoyment of Earth. 

He had stepped up behind him, offered a hello that he hadn’t realized was torn from his mouth and thrown backwards by the wind off the sea, that never reached Crowley’s ears. He had tentatively stretched out a hand, just barely brushing careful fingers across a bony shoulder. The shoulder had jerked, pulled sharply away from the unexpected touch, and Crowley’s whole body turned to face the threat, forgetting for a moment that he was hovering at the very edge of a short, steep cliff. 

He had one second to recognize Aziraphale’s face, one to realize what was about to happen, and a final second to be embarrassed about it, before he tipped sideways and plummeted towards the crashing sea below. The fall wasn’t anywhere near enough to discorporate him on impact, but Aziraphale could immediately see him floundering, the panicked waving of his limbs, fighting to keep his mouth above the heaving salt water. The angel found himself jumping, not a thought in his mind but to _help_, to fulfill his Holy Purpose and _save_ any creature in need. 

The water is stunningly cold, tears his breath from his lungs as he plunges into the turbulent darkness, but he has been stationed here for some time now, and a scrawny local boy, Ismael, has been teaching him to swim, to respect and appreciate the power of the sea the human way, careful and reverent. He strokes slowly, awkwardly towards Crowley, the frantic motions of the demon’s body slowing as he sinks, head tipped up in desperation towards an overcast sky, arms outstretched, reaching for something, _anything_ to grab, to anchor, to pull himself up towards the surface and gulp heaving breaths of salty air. 

His head goes under a few seconds before Aziraphale reaches him, manages to snag a bony elbow as it slips downwards into yawning depths, drags an unresponsive body to the surface, to the shore, tugging him along like a fisherman might retrieve a net, determined to reach the shore break, uncaring of the weight behind him, the water pulling them back, deeper, into the foaming embrace of the sea. 

He pulls Crowley’s limp body out of the shallows, arms locking around his still chest to get him on the grainy sand of the shore. He turns him over, to his side, pounds his back as Ismael had taught him, watches the fountain of sea water spill forth in heaving bursts from demonic lips, listens to the ragged gasps for air, deep, rattling breaths between expulsions of brine. 

He waits for Crowley to regain awareness, soaked through on a rocky beach, robes and hair heavy and wet, full of small rocks and the stench of the sea. Is it so wrong to think that he looks ethereal like this? Red, wet halo, heavy weighted robes, like a gift washed upon shore, a treasure from the deep. 

Crowley doesn’t thank him. 

**II.**

The second time it happens, Crowley is very, very drunk.

He had made his meandering way to Spain after receiving a commendation for excellent work, and what he had found had chilled him. Shouldn’t have been possible, demon and all, but he is horrified, stricken at the sight of what humans would do to each other in the name of religious differences. That had been two weeks ago now, and he hasn’t sobered up since. Hasn’t left this room either, couldn’t bear to see or hear more. About two days ago, he had started to cry, and he hasn’t been able to stop. If he had not been Fallen already, this would have shaken his faith enough to launch him downwards, he knew. 

He has no idea how the angel finds him, no memory of his entrance, but suddenly he is there, all bright and pure and shining, and Crowley curls himself deeper away, into his nest of dirty blankets, around the unending bottle in his lap. He is still crying, tears tracking endlessly down dirty cheeks, a cleansing; agony. The angel says nothing, tuts softly and steps neatly into the dirty nest, settling himself and unhesitatingly pulling the demon into his lap. 

Crowley sobs, then. Breaks the silence he has maintained for two weeks, clutches desperately at the white, soft robes pressed against his face, pulls his knees in close until he is almost, almost encased. Almost protected. He shakes, body wracked with wails of anguish, distress so sharp it sits like a physical thing on his chest, squeezing out his air in shuddering choked sounds that he tries to muffle into the endlessly forgiving sympathy holding him in its arms, rocking him softly as one might a very small child, shushing and murmuring softness, empty nothing-words just to soothe, an endless mantra of _I’m here with you_, _it’s okay, it will be okay, you are safe_.

He wants to resent the angel for it, for offering such comfort to a _demon_ of all beings, but he needs it, and two weeks drunk he would have even admitted it. Aziraphale holds Crowley for a long, long time. Long enough that his cries become murmurs, become ragged breaths, become sleep. And he holds him still, rocking, gentle, a well of tenderness, of forgiveness, of comfort. 

**III.**

The third time it happens, Crowley is asleep.

He has fallen asleep in the brand-new bookshop, slumped over in an overstuffed armchair, empty wine glass slipping through his fingers and falling with a soft thud on the carpet, rolling away, towards a similarly-slumped angel. The angel, however, is not asleep. He does not sleep. He is looking at the snoozing demon with soft affection on his face, a look he makes sure is tucked away whenever Crowley might see. Wouldn’t do, an angel looking at a demon like that. 

He walks over, shoes silent over the carpet, picks up the dropped glass and sets it on a table. 

“Alright, up you get,” he says, pulling the demon’s arms around his own neck, squeezing one arm behind a loose, curved back and using the other to tuck under bony knees, so gently lifting him up, as though he weighs less than a feather. 

Crowley is sleeping, but he remembers it. Remembers a feeling like home, like getting tucked in just exactly right. Remembers linking his arms around something, someone, warm and safe and trusting. He remembers rocking, like a boat, and Crowley has never been particularly fond of travel-by-sea but this boat seemed alright, smooth and regular, sailing quietly over a glass-still sea. 

Crowley remembers this the fuzzy way that humans do, the vagueness of remembered-through-sleep, like a dream, or a fantasy so well-imagined it’s allowed to just brush up against the edges of reality. He remembers feeling held close, feeling like something precious and _loved_. 

He sleeps for a very long time. 

**IV.**

The fourth time it happens, Crowley and Aziraphale are both standing in a church.

Or well, Aziraphale is standing, Crowley is hopping around, doing his damned best to keep himself away from the consecrated ground and doing a terrible job of not burning the soles of his feet. 

There is a very cruel nun standing in front of them, next to a very large font of holy water, a brutal sneer on her face. They have been working together on this latest temptation/blessing, and have gotten in rather over their heads. The convent has somehow managed to figure them out, has lured them here to prove it. Crowley’s hopping is the final straw, the ultimate proof of his demonic nature, and the nun smiles savagely as she tips the font over, the marble cracking against the church floor, the sound a sharp echo against stone walls, holy water spilling over and rushing towards them. 

Crowley doesn’t even think about it, just throws himself at Aziraphale, scrambles around until he is as far from the ground as possible, torso twisted over Aziraphale’s shoulders and legs hitched high around his chest. He is clutching at him, scared, angry, and Aziraphale is steady as a rock, holding still as though Crowley’s weight is closer to that of a thought, instead of 80 kilograms of corporeal meat. 

Aziraphale has begun to tremble, just slightly, and Crowley can feel him warming up under his body, can smell the fresh-ozone scent of him as he brightens, as his Holy Power spills over and the nun evaporates without so much as a snap. The font reassembles itself, the water leaping back into the bowl, cowering against the wall in the face of such Divine Wrath. Crowley goes to lower himself, to return to hopping around, but Aziraphale stops him. 

“Please, just let me carry you, my dear. I do so worry about your feet.” He says it so reasonably, and Crowley doesn’t particularly _enjoy_ the burning feeling of holy objects and locations, so he concedes, shifting around to a more comfortable position, arms resting atop broad shoulders, legs wound tight around soft giving hips. 

“Yeah, alright angel. But don’t make a habit of it.” 

It’s a bit late for that. 

**V.**

The fifth time it happens, Crowley is sober, and awake, and they aren’t in any imminent danger of discorporation. 

Crowley is lounging around the not-so-new bookshop, as is his wont, and Aziraphale is doing inventory, as is his. Crowley is quite comfortable where he is, leaning back against a book shelf, relaxed and loose with the summer heat that trickles through the building. 

“Crowley, would you move please, dear.” Aziraphale was trying to get at the bookshelf behind him, finishing up his inventory with the last of the historical tragedies. 

“‘S too hot.” Crowley lounged harder, the brat. 

“Crowley.” 

“Don’t wanna.” 

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous, I just need to get behind you for a _second_, and then I promise you can go back.” 

“Nnng.” A vaguely dissenting noise. 

Aziraphale sighs, carefully putting down his ledger and pen on a nearby side table, and steps towards Crowley. The demon feels he is above cowering under physical threats, and knows the angel wouldn’t actually hurt him in any way, so he does nothing, and is quite shocked when Aziraphale leans over slightly, pushing his shoulder into Crowley’s stomach and lifting him cleanly off his feet, stepping over to a chair and depositing him gently onto it. 

Crowley is spluttering, lifting his legs as though about to pop up onto his feet, then thinks better of it as the angel simply turns away, adjusting his waist-coat and picking up the ledger once again, standing casually in front of the bookshelf Crowley had been leaning against moments ago. 

That was… how did… “You--!” He manages to spit out.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale answers absently, still focused on his precious inventory.

“You… you just picked me up!” 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. It’s not as though you’re very heavy dear.”

“Not very… Aziraphale!” he can’t keep the scandalized tone out of his voice. 

“It’s not even the first time, dear boy.”

“Not the first… What!? You-- When?!” 

“Well, there was that time in the late eighteenth century, and surely you remember that time in the 90’s with the nuns.” 

“Well- but… but it’s-- this is, it’s different, angel!”

“Well, I don’t see how.” 

“You can’t just-- just-- oh, nevermind.” Crowley stands, goes to make his way to the door. “I said not to make a habit out of it!”

Aziraphale’s laughter follows him out. 

**+I.**

Crowley is sweating, grip around Aziraphale’s neck slipping, trying to hitch himself forward, upwards, harder. Aziraphale is as collected as ever, only the deep flush on his cheeks betraying him as he thrusts brutally in and out of Crowley, hands gripping possessively at his thin hips, his ass, spread wide with knees hooked over the angel’s elbows. Completely controlled by him. 

Crowley is being loud, moaning like a cheap whore, each thrust pushing air out of him and causing a catch in his voice. Aziraphale is just so _strong_, lifting Crowley and manipulating his body as he pleases, and Crowley is in ecstasy over it. There is not a single thing he wants more than for the angel to completely consume him, to devour him whole and spit out his bones, to demolish him completely and leave nothing but a smear of ash behind. _God_ but it felt so good to be fucked like this by the angel, his angel. Like he was being split in half, like it really might kill him and he _wanted_ it to. 

He is scrabbling at Aziraphale’s neck, trying to pull himself up for a kiss, hungry, always hungry for that mouth. Aziraphale denies him, tilts his hips forward, pulls Crowley’s knees further apart, opening him as wide as he can possibly go. 

“Are you enjoying yourself, dear?” Damn him for sounding so composed.

“Yes, y-uh-es, uh, Angel!” He’s close, Aziraphale can tell, so he redoubles his efforts, driving in with a speed that might have been just a tiny bit impossible for a human, putting all the force Crowley’s body could afford him as counterweight into his thrusts, their hips slapping together obscenely, still drowned out by Crowley’s wails. 

When Crowley comes he loses his grip completely, torso sliding backwards as his body seizes against the angels, who keeps him up with just a hand on his back, the other still possessively gripping high up on his thigh, unwavering in his pace. When Crowley realizes this, he nearly wishes he could come again, but male bodies had so many inconveniences when it came to multiple orgams, and he would just have to wait for another time.

When Aziraphale has finished, he doesn’t release Crowley’s legs, instead keeping him suspended, still stretched open and defenseless, walks him over to their bed and flops them both down onto it, pushing Crowley’s hips into a position that might have dislocated them if they didn’t know better. 

“So..” Aziraphale starts conversationally, “You like that I can lift you.”

“Shut _up_, angel.” 

It was worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in about an hour when this idea punched me in the brain. Feed me comments, they fuel me.
> 
> Also, if anyone wants to read my currently-20k WIP high school AU that literally no one asked for of these two, lmk


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